


bleeding heart

by gravitiesfall



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, First Meetings, I hate myself, M/M, Pickup Lines, a personal weakness for illumi ROASTING hisoka, blood underwear and a laundromat, idk you could read this as nb illumi or hisoka just not giving a shit, vaguely, writer's block can get FUCKED
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-22
Updated: 2017-07-22
Packaged: 2018-12-05 08:36:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11574405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gravitiesfall/pseuds/gravitiesfall
Summary: "So ordinarily Hisoka does, in fact, wear clothes most places, and ordinarily he doesn’t try to pick up everyone he meets -- both statements, apparently, contrary to popular belief. It’s clear pretty quickly, though, that today is not an ordinary day."hisoillu "i'm standing in my underwear at a laundromat and you came in with a load of clothes soaked in blood" au





	bleeding heart

**Author's Note:**

> i have crippling writer's block and a weird obsession with hisoillu as semi-functioning human beings (ooc i know), so here's like 1k of the disaster duo. have fun!

So ordinarily Hisoka does, in fact, wear clothes most places, and ordinarily he doesn’t try to pick up  _ everyone _ he meets -- both statements, apparently, contrary to popular belief. It’s clear pretty quickly, though, that today is not an ordinary day.

 

For one thing, literally every item of clothing he owns is destroyed, and it’s actually not his fault -- blame his roommates, for The Party that ruined the shreds of what he calls a life. Blame Machi for convincing him to stick around longer than two seconds. Blame Chrollo for orchestrating the whole thing. He should have realized what was happening as soon as he saw the aluminum foil, but he was…  _ distracted _ . Now he’s got the first-degree burns to remind him to keep it in his pants until the threats of tartar sauce, electrification, and/or airhorns are minimized.

 

So he’s standing at the laundromat in his boxers, which remained intact other than a few scorch marks, waiting for the load of salvageable clothes to finish, when the bell rings, signaling someone’s entrance, and for a solid ten seconds all he can think is,  _ Damn _ .

 

A smooth face, very pale, with huge dark eyes. Long dark hair. Tall, and thin.

 

Overall, scary. Scary and hot.

 

_ Just my type _ , he thinks, and smiles, and continues to observe.

 

They open the lid of a washer, lift their basket, and --  _ holy shit _ . Every piece of clothing is bloody.

 

Not like “my nose bled and it dripped on my pants.” Not like “I cut my hand and wiped it on my shirt.” Every piece of clothing is dripping red to the point where their original colors barely peek through.

 

Hisoka makes a small and slightly worried sound, and the person turns their head disturbingly quickly and raises a thin eyebrow. “Problem?” they say, voice distractedly cheerful despite their totally dead expression. 

 

“Ah,” he says, surprised, then recovers with a smirk. “Yes, actually. I believe there’s an issue with my eyes -- I can’t seem to take them off you.”

 

The person doesn’t react. No disgust, no blush, nothing. They just blink at him.

 

Internally, Hisoka smiles wider. God but he loves a challenge.

 

“So what's your deal?” They tilt their head ever so slightly. “I mean, why on earth are your clothes soaked in blood?” 

 

“If I told you, I would have to kill you,” they say. Hisoka’s lips twitch, the suggestion of a smile, and they continue in the same cheerful monotone, “That wasn't a joke.” 

 

“Hm,” he says, propping an elbow on the washer and dropping his chin into his hand. “Sounds fun.”

 

“For me, maybe,” says the person. Something in their face shifts - a tiny squint of their eyes, a slight relaxation of their mouth - and to anyone else, it would've been indiscernible, but to him it’s crystal clear. The hot bloody laundry person is amused, and he wants to keep it that way. 

 

“Fine then,” he says. “Don’t tell me. I’ll just be forced to imagine all the dreadful things you could have been doing.” 

 

Their eyebrows lift just a bit - pleased. “Dreadful,” they repeat. “I like it. A useful self-descriptor.” 

 

A laugh startles out of him. “Well doesn't that just add fuel to the fire,” he says, grinning. 

 

“What about you?” Hot Bloody Laundry Person says, a singular twitch of their eye screaming condescension. They bat a piece of hair out of their face almost boredly.

 

“What about me?

 

Their eyes flick up and down his body. He’s almost flattered but for the disgusted expression on their beautiful face. “Why don’t you have any clothes on?”

 

“Hmm, changing the subject? And I do have at least  _ one  _ piece of clothing on,” he corrects, waving a finger lazily. “If you’d prefer, I could--”

 

“That will not be necessary,” they interrupt. The set of their mouth is supposed to be a frown, but something in their eyes tells him this is as close as they get to a laugh. “I was just looking for an explanation.”

 

Hisoka frowns at the reminder. “Let’s just say my roommates and I no longer get along.”

 

“I’m kind of surprised anyone could get along with you in the first place, from what I know about you,” Hot Bloody Laundry Person says.

 

_ Zing. _ They didn’t even bat an eye.

 

It happens, however, to be one of Hisoka’s  _ many  _ talents to turn anything into a pickup line, and so he says without missing a beat, “Which happens to be painfully little. If you’d like, you could come back to my apartment with me, and we could get to know each other better.”

 

“I can think of little less appealing,” they say, completely flat faced, and Hisoka can’t quite suppress his victory grin. 

 

“So it sounds better than at least a few things, then,” he says. “Hm, it’s quite alright, you don’t have to hide it any longer.”

 

If it’s possible, the person’s eyes look even deader. “Hide what, exactly?”

 

He leans forward until he’s much closer to their face than any stranger should be, then leans a little more, and purrs, “Your secret lust for  _ me _ , of course.”

 

If Hisoka spent his whole life trying, he would never be able to make a face half so perfectly disgusted as the one Hot Bloody Laundry Person pulls. “I as- _ sure  _ you,” they say, yanking their face away, “no such feeling does, did, or will ever exist.”

 

It’s all he can do to hold in a laugh. “Aw, come on, don’t be shy now,” he says. “At least give me your phone number.”

 

“Further contact with the nearly-naked stranger I met doing laundry is the last thing I want,” they say. It looks like they’re seriously considering stopping the wash cycle partway through so they can escape, which would be a  _ loss _ , and that’s something Hisoka cannot tolerate.

 

“At least give me a name,” he persists. “That’s the first step from strangers to not-strangers. Then giving me your phone number will be perfectly acceptable, no?”

 

The person’s mouth twitches --  shit, was that almost a smile? Yes, he decides, his eyes aren’t deceiving him -- that was at least a sixteenth of a smile.

 

_ New personal mission _ , he decides.  _ Get them to fully smile. I may lose my life in the undertaking, because they will kill me. But it will have been worth it. _

 

“What’s so funny?” he says, arching an eyebrow. “Am I wrong?”

 

Now, this part is odd, because they look thrown for a full second -- startled, probably, at being caught. Hisoka’d bet just about anything this person is not used to people knowing what they’re thinking -- all the better for him, because he lives to surprise. 

 

Then their face shifts back to the blank mask -- because it is, in fact, a mask. He can see that now. Their normal expressions are cruel and small and not really “normal” at all, but the person is not  _ quite  _ as dead inside as their resting face would indicate, which is pretty damn good for Hisoka’s (still minimal) chances. 

 

They stoop down, jam the stop button, and unceremoniously scoop their dripping wet laundry into their basket. Then they turn on their heel and make for the door. 

 

Scratch that about his chances, then.

 

“Illumi,” they say, glancing over a slender shoulder, and he blinks.

 

“What?”

 

“My name,” they clarify. “Progress beyond that will be reserved for if we meet again. Which we won’t.” And like that they’re out the door, a trail of bloody spots on the threadbare carpet the only trace they were there at all.

 

Hisoka smiles. “Challenge accepted,” he says, “Illumi.” The name tastes bitter. He loves it already.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!!!! (no seriously if you made it through my word vomit you deserve an award i'm not even joking)


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